Sarmatian Page 12

  ‘They’ve gone. For the moment.’

  I looked around and saw the Aorsi had indeed gone, those still living, that is. Many of their former comrades were now corpses with arrows stuck in them, or their skulls and bodies bludgeoned by blunt instruments. Dead horses lay on corpses, bodies were draped over slain animals, and the centre of the village was painted red. There was blood splashed on the walls of huts, on the ground, on human and animal corpses, and on the faces of those who had done the killing.

  The aftermath of battle is a curious phenomenon. In the cauldron of combat, men can excel themselves to achieve superhuman feats. Some, driven to a white-hot rage, can continue to fight oblivious to injuries they have suffered. Others, previously frightened and quivering, suddenly become calm and focused as they discover an inner core of iron they were unaware of, like a miner finding a rich seam of metal. Highly trained professionals will obey their officers and carry out their duties regardless of the horror unfolding around them. But for all, the aftermath is the same. Limbs become leaden and weak as bodies relax. Battle exhausts physical and mental reserves. Individuals can be possessed of a raging thirst and after hours of combat the body craves rest. But for civilians caught up in combat, it is far worse.

  Klietas was going among the villagers to reassure and congratulate them. Some were shaking, others weeping, but most just stood staring into space, vacant expressions on their faces. Dura’s soldiers, used to the face of battle, were already thinking about what would happen next. Navid was directing his men, all ten of them, to stack the bodies of dead horses in the gaps between huts to form makeshift barricades.

  ‘Move.’

  I heard Bullus’ gruff voice and saw him shoving a dazed villager with his shield. ‘If they come back, you won’t have time to mope around. You’ll be dead.’

  They did come back, but not in the way we expected. As we frantically hauled dead horses to block the gaps between huts, throwing dead Aorsi on top of them to increase the height of the makeshift barricades, it was Spadines himself who rode back to the village. He held a sprig of ironwood in his hand, a tree indigenous to northern Media, Gordyene and Atropaiene. He approached the village with the sprig held aloft to show he wished to talk. How I wanted to give the order to shoot him down. But it was a universally accepted rule of war that one did not kill emissaries, no matter how repugnant they were.

  ‘Put down your weapons,’ I told Avedis and four others who had stones in the pouches of their slings, ready to send Spadines to the underworld.

  They grudgingly obeyed my command, though Avedis’ eyes were filled with rage.

  I walked over to him, or rather hobbled as my left leg was throbbing with pain.

  ‘It is considered an offence against the gods to kill an emissary of the enemy who comes in peace, and we do not want to offend the immortals, do we?’

  He said nothing but gave a curt nod, staring at the figure of Spadines, now around thirty paces from the edge of the village.

  ‘No more need to die,’ he called to us. ‘Surrender the man named Klietas, or show me his body, and we will leave you in peace. We have no quarrel with you. But if you do not give Klietas or his corpse up, we will burn your village to the ground.

  ‘I will give you until the dawn to decide. A whole night to determine whether you and your village will live or die. No help is coming, but in the morning, more of my men will be here.’

  He tossed the sprig to the ground, turned his horse and cantered back to his men, now making camp, the flicker of campfires decorating a hill in the distance.

  ‘Do you believe him, majesty?’ said Bullus.

  ‘He’s a thief, rapist and liar. But he is right when he says no help is coming.’

  I looked around at our ragged collection of stunned civilians and tired soldiers.

  ‘If they attack again, I doubt we will be able to hold them.’

  Bullus looked over at Klietas comforting Anush.

  ‘Our fate lies in his hands, then.’

  ‘We are not giving up Klietas,’ I stated, ‘not to the bandit Spadines. Never.’

  As the sun dipped in the west, we stood behind our ghastly barricades, waiting for an attack that never came. There was no wind that night but still the sounds of revelry from the Sarmatian camp reached our ears, unnerving the villagers. Navid had had the foresight to bring the camels and supplies into the village, though the pitched tents remained beyond the stream, a watercourse now beyond reach. The odds were stacked against us, that much was certain. And Klietas must have realised this, for when dawn came, our eyes red, our limbs aching and our mouths dry and foul, he had gone.

  A distraught Anush came to me accompanied by an angry Avedis and a resigned Kevork, the big man’s tunic stained red with the blood of the men he had bludgeoned to death with his hammer. Those corpses and others were now as stiff as wooden boards, their skin a hideous grey-white. They and the dead horses were crawling with flies, adding to the feeling of dread that weighed down on us. I saw the pregnant Anush, the anguish on her face and anger welled up inside me.

  I held her hand. ‘Don’t worry, I will get him back.’

  Chapter 7

  In their eagerness to kill us, the Aorsi had left our tents intact, which meant I could pen a letter to Akmon at Irbil while Navid sent out scouts from his depleted force to ensure the Sarmatians had departed. They returned with news that they had indeed left the area, though in a leisurely fashion, his men having seen them travelling north back to Vanadzor. He, Bullus, the remainder of his men and the villagers hastily prepared a pyre to cremate the dead, the threat of pestilence hanging over us all, as well as the nauseating aroma of burning flesh as the fire consumed the dead. The horse carcasses were butchered for meat – a ghastly thing to do but the most practical given the need for food and the fact the horseflesh could be smoked to preserve it for future consumption. The villagers would need all the food sources they could lay their hands on, seeing as the Aorsi had trampled their crops into the ground.

  In my letter I informed Akmon what had happened in the north of his kingdom, urging him to send troops to guarantee the safety of Vazneh and its inhabitants. I also requested that he despatch food to the villagers, plus seeds for replanting the fields and a pair of oxen to make ploughing the aforementioned fields easier. Dura’s treasury would reimburse Irbil for the expense incurred. I told the assembled villagers the same when they had cleared the centre of their settlement of dead men and horses, the former consigned to the pyre; the latter being carefully butchered. They looked a sorry sight, their clothes stained with blood and their faces dirty and ashen.

  I held up the folded papyrus sheet I had been writing on.

  ‘Your king will send soldiers, food, seeds and oxen.’

  ‘We have no money to pay for such things,’ said Avedis, bitterly.

  ‘I will be paying for them,’ I told him.

  For the first time in two days, I saw the semblance of a smile on their faces and appreciative nods.

  ‘That is very generous, highborn,’ said Kevork, who had donned a leather apron to assist the village butcher carve up the horse carcasses. ‘But what if the wild horsemen return?’

  I glanced at Anush, her eyes red and puffy from weeping.

  ‘They will not. They have got what they came for.’

  I saw her head drop as she cradled her belly.

  ‘But I intend to ride to Vanadzor to bring back your headman, that I swear.’

  Anush looked up and had utter relief etched on her face. But Navid and Bullus were horrified. The young horse archer officer, his right arm in a sling as a result of receiving a sword cut, came over to me and bowed his head.

  ‘With respect, majesty, we are too few to attempt a rescue mission.’

  ‘He’s right,’ agreed Bullus, who looked remarkably fresh considering he had had no sleep. Adversity obviously suited him.

  ‘Of my men, only five are unhurt and a number of the horses have also been wounded,’ emphasised Navid. �
��And we are very low on ammunition.’

  ‘That is why you and they are returning to Irbil,’ I told him. ‘I will be going to Vanadzor alone.’

  Navid’s forehead creased with a frown.

  ‘I would advise against that, majesty.’

  ‘As would I,’ said Bullus. ‘If the Aorsi discover you are after them, they will kill you.’

  ‘They won’t,’ I said. ‘And though I am touched by your concern for my welfare, I have not fought for forty years to allow a rabble of Aorsi bandits get the better of me.’

  Bullus sighed. ‘I better come with you, majesty, just to make sure you don’t get into trouble.’

  I was going to refuse but then remembered Gallia telling me she had selected Bullus to be a member of her group of assassins because he had been part of the scratch force I had taken to Irbil to defend it against Atrax and his mercenary army. She believed the big, gruff centurion to be beloved of the gods, and while I could think of no reason why this particular soldier of Dura’s army should be singled out by the immortals, who was I to query the whims of the gods? I was not so conceited to believe I was invincible or indeed would myself receive the assistance of the immortals, especially after giving away the armour I had been gifted by them.

  ‘I accept your impertinent offer,’ I said.

  Navid was deeply troubled. ‘I must strongly protest, majesty.’

  I pressed a finger into his chest.

  ‘Your task, your mission, is to get to Irbil as quickly as possible to give King Akmon my letter, after which you are to write to Dura to inform the queen of what has happened to her husband. Is that clear?’

  Chastened, he stiffened and saluted. ‘Yes, majesty.’

  ‘You and your men will leave at once,’ I said.

  They took all the camels but left us a spare horse to carry our single eight-man tent, fodder and food. I watched the rather pathetic column of battered horse archers with hardly any ammunition trot away to the south, Bullus on his horse beside me holding the reins of Horns and the spare horse. I walked over to the knot of villagers, behind the charred remains of a hut the Sarmatians had set alight. I embraced Anush.

  ‘I will return with Klietas, that I promise,’ I whispered into her ear. I stepped back and addressed the others.

  ‘The devastation and lawlessness that has been visited on your village will not be forgotten. You have my pledge that those responsible will be brought to justice, and that Klietas will be rescued to once again assume his responsibilities as your headman. Media is no longer a place of tyranny but a land of freedom, justice and the rule of law. Just as you have planted your fields anew, so has your king sowed the seeds of a new kingdom, one which will flourish to make Media once again the first kingdom of the empire.’

  I turned, walked back to Horns and hauled myself into his saddle. Bullus passed me his reins.

  ‘Fine speech, majesty. Do you think they believed you?’

  ‘I hope so, for surely as day follows night, it is the truth.’

  My plan was a simple one. We would ride north to Lake Urmia, journey along its western shore before swinging west to head directly for Vanadzor. The plan had two advantages, I hoped. First, the Aorsi, ill-disciplined rabble that they were and now flush with a victory of sorts, would make their back to Castus in a leisurely fashion. Even if they were not tardy, I hoped the second advantage would allow us to arrive at Gordyene’s capital before Klietas was murdered – our horses.

  The Persians had revered them, the breed being the choice of their nobility, and it was said that the great chariot of their god, Ahura Mazda, was pulled by them. The Chinese called it Tien Ma – Heavenly Horse – for a steed that was both beautiful and the most valuable. Horns was a Nisean, named after the town of Nisaia in the Nisaean Plains at the foot of the Zagros Mountains. But now they were bred and ridden across the breadth of the Parthian Empire.

  Horns was so named because of the bony knobs on his forehead, a distinct characteristic of the breed, though his were particularly pronounced. They came in a variety of colours but the most common were dark bay, chestnut and brown. Horns was black and the rarest colour among Niseans was white, so rare that they were reserved for kings and gods, or so the saying went. All Niseans had great strength and endurance, the latter quality serving us well as we cantered along the shore of Lake Urmia.

  No words were exchanged between me and Bullus for the first two hours of our journey, during which we covered at least twenty miles. When we stopped for a halt near the great lake, the sun reflecting off its glittering turquoise surface, we did so near a freshwater stream filled with bubbling, ice-cool water. Horns and the other two horses drank from the stream and while they did so we relieved them of their saddles and loads. Lake Urmia sat in a great basin surrounded by mountains, from which came runoff from the heavy winter snowfall they were subjected to. The basin itself was subject to cold winters and long, dry summers. But the meltwater that came from the mountains in spring and early summer ensured the land remained green.

  We both disrobed and threw ourselves into the stream, the temperature of the water at first a shock but then refreshing as I washed the filth and grime from my body and hair. We had ridden without helmets and armour, though my bow was close at all times. But we had seen no signs of human life since leaving Vazneh, and I doubted we would be disturbed during our journey, not until we entered Gordyene, at least.

  After immersing ourselves in the invigorating stream for some time, we emerged from the water rejuvenated. The sun was high in the sky now, warming the earth, though not excessively so. As I pulled on my leggings, I saw Bullus glancing at the scars on my back.

  ‘Was it painful, majesty, the flogging, I mean?’

  My mind went back to a younger Pacorus being lashed on the deck of a Roman ship, a cocky young prince of Hatra who had allowed himself and those of his men to be captured during an expedition in Cappadocia.

  ‘Yes,’ I answered, ‘though the worst part was afterwards when my back felt as though it was being used as a pin cushion for a thousand red-hot needles. Not that I had any medical treatment, not until I and the rest of my men were rescued by Spartacus.’

  He buckled his leather belt around his waist.

  ‘What was he like?’

  I laughed, which caught him by surprise. The same old question asked of me a thousand times over the years. When I had first been posed the question I had answered truthfully. Spartacus was just a man, a good man, an honest man, a decent man. But that answer was wholly unsatisfactory to those who wanted to hear stories of a man who had challenged the might of Rome in her own homeland. No ordinary man could have raised himself up to command an army of tens of thousands, conjured up from nothing, which defeated army after army sent against it. So, over the years I embellished the story. Spartacus became taller, broader, possessed of a keen intellect, a giant on the battlefield, both literally and metaphorically. This was certainly no lie, but neither was Spartacus a demi-god. He was a simple, ordinary man and that is why other men loved him.

  ‘A great soldier,’ I answered. ‘A man who inspired loyalty, and that quality above all is what made him so great. That is why we go to rescue Klietas, Bullus. We must remain loyal to our family, friends and homelands at all times.’

  ‘You might pay a high price, majesty.’

  I put on a fresh tunic and buckled my sword belt. I drew the spatha and held it up.

  ‘This was given to me by Spartacus over forty years ago. He never broke faith with his friends. Neither will I. At the very least, I owe it to Klietas to save him as he saved me.’

  Bullus threw a saddlecloth on to his horse’s back.

  ‘The queen told you Castus tried to have us killed?’ he said.

  ‘She did.’

  He turned to look directly at me.

  ‘If you don’t mind me saying so, majesty, there is something not quite right about him. He was angry when he found out Haya and Klietas had been sleeping together. But he sent his men to kill
Klietas before he knew that. Your going to Vanadzor might not save Klietas; but it might get you killed.’

  ‘It might get you killed, too.’

  He shrugged. ‘Not me, majesty.’

  ‘And why is that?’

  He grinned like an impious child. ‘I’ve got a beautiful woman with large breasts watching over me. She saved me once, and I’m sure she will do so again.’

  ‘Your reverence for the gods is truly humbling, Bullus.’

  We rode a further thirty miles that day before leaving the glittering surface of the great salt lake to head west the next day, towards the mountains that ringed Gordyene. There was a time when the mountain passes were filled with traffic carrying goods in both directions. But that was before Parthia had even existed and now the narrow valleys were mostly empty. The air was cool and refreshing as we rode through the high peaks, many still capped with snow, though the lower slopes were carpeted with trees, mostly pine with a sprinkling of juniper and aspen. The air was thick with the smell of the evergreens, the temperature humid and heavy as we threaded our way through the trees along tracks that were hundreds of years old. People were strangers in these parts, and I wondered if the inhabitants of the region, if they were still extant, were direct descendants of the gods that walked the earth thousands of years ago.

  The forests were certainly alive, with bears waking up from their hibernation, wolves that tracked us in packs but never came near, especially when we lit a fire at night, plus lynx and wild cats. We bathed in ice-cold waterfalls cascading over rocky peaks and drank from fast-flowing streams. And never once did we see any soul until we were through the mountains and into Gordyene proper.

  Once, many years before, I had spent a summer and winter in Gordyene, skirmishing with its Roman garrison, which harried us out of the kingdom and chased us into Atropaiene. We nearly died of starvation and were eventually cornered by the Romans, only to be saved by the arrival King Khosrou of Margiana and King Musa of Hyrcania. Then Gordyene had been a wasteland, but two generations later the kingdom had changed beyond all recognition. Where once there had been abandoned villages and a paucity of people, now there were large settlements filled with lots of children.